


Paint It Black

by Elinie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, POV Hermione Granger, Post-War, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elinie/pseuds/Elinie
Summary: Do you remember that last winter of your life? So weird. Flames crackle in the fireplace, eagerly devouring another log, the room is hot, and I am covered with goosebumps and a frown of displeased. I conjure good dozen of firewood and unload them into one awkward pile by the fireplace. Clutter in thoughts and clutter in the house - all for the sake of inner harmony, and not an inch more.





	Paint It Black

Do you remember that last winter of your life? So weird. Flames crackle in the fireplace, eagerly devouring another log, the room is hot, and I am covered with goosebumps and a frown of displeased. I conjure good dozen of firewood and unload them into one awkward pile by the fireplace. Clutter in thoughts and clutter in the house - all for the sake of inner harmony, and not an inch more.

I sit in a large leather armchair, promising myself to take a blanket with me the next time I bring it to the library. Recently, the “next time” has been happening more and more often. I watch the early snowflakes for October whirling around the window, shrinking from the cold in a hotly heated room, sigh and rejoice that there is no one at home.

Ron is again away on another of his eternal business trips on the occasion of another out-of-the-ordinary event with which our life is already stuffed to the eyeballs. Harry hurries home to Ginny and the children, he worries about something and stays silent about many things, and everything is as always. Not all.

I throw a log at the fireplace, refusing to use the spell, and am glad that Ron is not at home. He probably would have bombarded me with unnecessary questions, from which an already awake conscience would have woken up. Or maybe Ron wouldn’t understand anything, he’s not Harry... Everyone has the right to keep personal secrets. I have it too. My right to come to the library once a year.

I stroke the misted glass of red wine with my thumb, recognizing that whiskey would be much more appropriate now, but I still have not learned how to drink whiskey, as well as to drink at all. But once a year... Everyone has the right to "once a year", everyone has the right not to justify themselves.

I bring the wand to my eyes, whispering: “Expecto Patronum”, smiling, silencing the ready on the tongue: “Expecto Astrum”, “Accio, Accio”. Sirius is not an object, and therefore it is impossible to do just the "Accio" here, although I would wish to try. Stupid witch! I hide my wand in my pocket, already knowing that the swiveling otter that jumped out to meet me turned into a silver dog, laying its head on my lap. Well, at least so. It is my right, and I cheekily use it.

What am I doing here? I have one clear dialogue with my own past. How many years have passed there? Fifteen years ago, I was a little fool in love dreaming at night about an inaccessible fugitive. Fifteen years ago, I still knew why people were looking at the sky. Fifteen years ago, I knew everything, all the answers that only existed in the world, and all the spells. But even they could not save you. And somehow it turned out that for all these fifteen years I had been lying so confidently to myself that, in the end, I myself believed. It’s ridiculous. For some reason, even the silver dog grumbles, why, Sirius?

If one of us has gone crazy, then it’s definitely not you, on the other side of the Veil everything seems good, there is no need to hide in the web of our own madness. I throw off my shoes and put my bare feet on the scorching-cold floor, maybe this will bring me to my senses? Who am I kidding! I throw my head back and laugh. My laughter echoes from the walls, a soundlessly deafening laugh. Some lady in the picture reproachfully shakes her head. I command her to disappear. Today is my night. Mine and my madness.

Time passes, Sirius, and strong, desperate cynics grow out of such good girls, who at times are a little crazy. But you are not around; therefore, there is no one to ask questions either. But I ask. For the first time, the perfect girl, Hermione, cannot answer, cannot solve the task that fell to her, because she knows the result in advance. And it's good that a loving Ron is not at home. You know, in the company of a silver dog, I’m much calmer than in the arms of my husband. Loving, but not beloved. The once soothsaying Seer was right: my soul really became dry, like parchment. However, in the Muggle world they believed that witches did not have a soul, and, having decided so, joyfully burned them at the stake. The flame, Sirius, it looks so much like you.

I seem to be dead drunk; it seems that this does not bother me at all. I remember. I catch the threads of memories from the yarn of memory and walk along them, winding this bitter ball from unfulfilled desires. Of course, we never had a single chance, but I lived among Muggles for too long, that’s why I got used to believing that dreams would come true, the fairy-tale world that I dreamed about from childhood turned out to be too cruel for girls with hypertrophic perfectionism.

Fifteen years have passed. I look at myself in the mirror. On the true self, uncovered by magic and charms, and what do I see there? I have a short haircut, a twinkle of madness in my eyes, a reputation of an impeccable wife and colleague, and wild shadows in my mind. Shadows threatening to carry me along. You know, I'm ready at least for the kiss of the Dementor, in order to avoid this coming to the library once a year. I am thirty years old, Sirius, a bit younger than you were. And if you really seemed to me an old man that time, you can officially consider me out of my mind. I am thirty years old, and I understand more clearly that we could have had a chance.

It is unlikely that there would be an all-consuming passion, which I somehow read about in the mediocre novel of the Muggle pen, but there would be something that would save me from meaningless wanderings. From the search for a universal remedy for mental torment, from... I don’t know from what.

On the table, under which a silver dog curled up, there is a photograph of Harry's dancing parents. He gave it to me himself. Just put it in my palm and left. No, probably not because he grew tired of his own parents, but because he got the picture from you. And now I'm just like you: I drink while they dance there. Why drink? I have no idea. I summon the dog to me and look into his eyes for a long time.

Flames dance merrily around the logs, the room smells of tar, wine, and sadness. It is snowing outside the window, and the lady from the picture is terribly offended by me. I'm warm now. Midnight is approaching, somewhere, the curtain of the Veil is swaying; the madness and common sense in me are reversed. I should have gone to the kitchen now, should have baked Ron pies, should have knitted Harry a sweater, should have had tea with vanilla, in a word, should have become an even more impeccable daughter-in-law for Mrs. Weasley. But it’s much more pleasant for me to wrap myself up in my memories and come up with phrases beginning with “if”. It would be better if they burned me at the stake!

I toss the glass to the floor, and it shatters into fragments with a melodious ringing. Even the most perfect girls who have driven themselves into the framework, sooner or later lose their mind, Sirius. And lying to oneself is useless. The spell returns a whole glass to my hands; I put it on a shelf and go to the window. I wish I could see you. At least for a moment. I wouldn’t say anything; I wouldn’t look for answers that I know in advance, I would just sit nearby and look in the flames. Maybe I would be lucky and you would smile at me. Not that mischievous smile that you always kept for your beloved godson, but the one behind which you hid all your pain so carefully. I would have taken your hand, not noticing how your cheeks were blazing with shame, and would have listened to all your stinging comments. All this would be when I was good and spotless when I still believed in fairy tales with a happy ending.

I open the window wide and let the snowstorms burst into the flooded room. The clock strikes midnight, so my only time has come. It is time to remember.

_Happy Birthday, Sirius._

And I close my eyes. I make no attempt to smudge the tears on my cheeks that ultimately won the battle with my random insanity. Well, tears are always more sincere than laughing, and a silver dog is clinging to my lap.

-The End-

.


End file.
